


Better

by Reneehart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Lucius is more paternal than romantic, No torture is described, and he has a change of heart a bit too late, based on a tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reneehart/pseuds/Reneehart
Summary: Victory over Potter's mudblood doesn't taste as sweet as Lucius thought it might.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> Found this little oneshot while cleaning out my folders. It's a bit sweeter in a dark way than I tend to write, but I'm pretty soft for Lucius as the secretly loving father. Based on the Prompt: Oh my god! Enough with the fucking bacon!

The cellar was cold, damp. Water trickled somewhere, a steady and rhythmic beat that disrupted the silence. It made Lucius wince, his hair stand on end. Nails dug into his skin, dragging red streaks across his fair flesh. He hated being down here, with the smell of earth and stale urine, the acrid aroma of decay filling the cramped room with low ceilings and dark, stone walls. 

It was his duty though, a punishment disguised as repentance by the Dark Lord. He had failed him several times over, the memory of the prophecy shattering at his feet a visceral thing. The memory of Draco- his son, the one person he swore to protect, the one he was doing all of this for- bent on the floor and howling in pain for his cowardice. His failure to kill Dumbledore.

The Malfoys had fallen, their home a palace of death and anguish. The floor where Draco took his first, uncertain steps stained with blood. The threshold marked with silver lines notched at different heights each year chipped and torn, nails cutting across the wood as prisoners clasped onto it for one desperate attempt. Family memories turned to ghosts, haunting the halls and shadows of the once-stately manor. 

He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. He was leaning against the iron bars, parts oxidized to copper-colored rust. He was relegated to tasks more befitting a house-elf, forced to keep their prisoner alive. Or half alive, the shadows beneath her cheekbones deeper than ever, each eye surrounded by indigos and violets. The hair which had been a wild mass of tangled curls was bitter from malnutrition, lank and dull.

Hermione Granger looked small, smaller even than when she was just a twelve-year-old girl glowering at him in a bookstore, chin inclined and jaw clenched. 

He always tried to avoid looking at her when he came down here to perform his duties- it never sat well, his stomach roiling uncomfortably at the sight of her. It was a harsh reminder that she was not just another prisoner of war, an opponent.

She was a child, the same age as his son.

It made him feel pathetic and filthy, weak. What sort of man needed to destroy a child? She might be a warrior and best friend to the prophesied Hero of their world, but what victory could truly be claimed from defeating a child?

He thought of his son, chained and bruised and bones jutting from sallow skin. 

There was no glory in this.

He pushed the thought from his mind, sputtering a cough as if it might dislodge that upsetting image. He glanced at the young witch and to the plate of food that lay untouched before her. Fluffy golden eggs and plump slivers of bacon, glistening with fat. There was even a handful of strawberries, fat and red and juicy. 

It wasn’t the food he was supposed to bring her, but he had tossed the stale slice of bread and dried meat in the rubbish. It wasn’t fit for an animal, which had been the point because she was meant to be lesser than an animal.

But she was a child. And making her eat old and disgusting food on her hands and knees didn’t make him feel powerful. Like a man.

It made him feel monstrous, animalistic himself. 

“You should eat,” he prompted, his words urging and impatient. He wanted to leave- he hated leaving his son and wife for longer than necessary. In the home that was no longer a home, haunted by the spirits of a forgotten life and the bloodied hands and mouths of the other Death Eaters. 

She ignored him, pointedly staring at everything but the food. The sight of it too tempting, even if her straining dignity would not allow her to eat it.

“They’re farm fresh eggs. Better tasting than what you’ll get at any market. And you can’t get a finer cut of meat. Macnair introduced me to this butcher- gets his meat from the fattest pigs, they live like kings and you can taste the difference. It really-”

“OH MY GOD!” she roared, her voice hoarse and cracking, throat raw from her screams. She kicked outward, knocking the plate and its contents to the floor. “Enough with the fucking bacon! I don’t want your food! Is this some sort of game? Bring me something better than jerky and old bread to make me think you suddenly have a heart? So that it will be more fun for you? Leave me alone!”

Her anger reached its crest, waned until her words were spoken in a hiss, spat like poison from her tongue. They were punctuated by sobs, bubbles that rose unbidden in her throat. Her lip trembled and her eyes were narrowed in hate. Anger.

He maintained her gaze for long. Longer than he thought he could. It made his stomach twist, his chest clench. 

He was the one to look away, kneeling down and pointing his wand at the food strewn across the floor. In seconds, it was as if nothing had happened. The food clean and neatly divided on the plate, wisps of steam rising up. 

He pulled his hand back, not rising from his position on the floor. He was eye level with her now, her thin ankle so close to him that if not for the bars between them he could curl his hand around it. 

He could hardly blame her for not trusting his kindness. He had never offered it before, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he offered it now. It was an instinct, cold and forgotten and buried in the synapses of his brain. He just...he couldn’t do it anymore. He could not bring himself to settle the plate of inedible food on the floor and watch her unfurl her small and battered body out to eat it. 

He slipped his hand through the bar, watching as she eyed it cautiously, flinching as if she resisted the urge to shuffle back.

He brushed his fingers against the plate, pushing it closer to her. “It’s not like a Gryffindor to roll over and die,” he said, but there wasn’t the bite to his words that he wanted. It was soft. “Your parents will never forgive you if you make it this far, only to die of your stubbornness.” 

It was a cruel hand to play, but it worked. She reeled back as if he had struck her, a quiet whimper slipping past parted lips. Her eyes looked distant as if recalling a private moment, a memory of the parents that were waiting for her- no parent could ever truly forget, after all. 

No memory charm was powerful enough to erase the weight of a small toddler clinging to your back, erase the sound of pitched giggles. They would remember their daughter, even if they couldn’t remember the details. There would be an absence they could never quite place, a shadow looming between them, between the awkward distance in each photo where a child should have been.

He swallowed thickly. He couldn’t imagine forgetting about his son- cherishing each memory like a dragon hoards treasure. Even the more daunting memories- the ones echoed with tears and tantrums, the evening drawn out by a toddler who would rather scream than sleep- seemed precious.

He was startled by the spiraling descent of his thoughts by movement. She slowly moved away from the wall, pulling the plate of food on her lap. She lifted the fork, twirling it in her hand before licking her lips. Her first bite was slow, her eyes closed, and he could see the way she restrained herself, making each following bite purposeful. 

He settled back on his heels, content. 

She was just a child, after all. Not a soldier or an enemy to be destroyed. She didn’t deserve to be caged and tortured any more than his own son did. 

He had failed to protect him, pushing the young boy into this world he unwittingly designed. His fantasies were better than the reality, the dreams dulled by blood and sweat. He thought once more of Draco twisting and screaming, body convulsing under the cruciatus curse, a nightmare blooming from the foundation that his dreams were supposed to be built upon.

Perhaps, there was an opportunity to be better, no matter how small.

  
  



End file.
